


My Heart Is Big (And Electric)

by kihadu



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Gen, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 05:40:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2640122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kihadu/pseuds/kihadu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke gets woken up by Isabela dumping an unconcious elf on his doorstep.</p><p>This is a reworking of the opening of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/894560/chapters/1727153">My Heart Is Big</a> as a modern AU with elves and magic. I don't expect to ever finish it, but I thought I'd post this anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Heart Is Big (And Electric)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a reworking of the opening of [My Heart Is Big](http://archiveofourown.org/works/894560/chapters/1727153) as a modern AU with elves and magic. I've left it marked incomplete just in case I do continue with this idea, but I don't expect to write anything more for it until next year.

Hawke woke up to a body falling into bed beside him.

“Bang,” the woman said into his ear. “You’re dead.” Hawke grumbled into his pillow, as if that were going to stave off the inevitable words that were about to come flowing out of her mouth.

“I need a favour.”

Hawke grumpily tried to make himself smaller.

“I’m in a spot of trouble.”

 

The trouble came in the shape of an elf whose body had been unceremoniously dumped on Hawke’s doorstep, too tall to sprawl out beneath the little portico so his feet were getting wet.

“Well,” said Hawke, looking down at him. “Fuck.” He poked the body with his bare foot. “Is he alive? I’m not game to put another body down back. Maybe in the paddock with the lemon tree?”

“He’s alive. I only punched him,” said Isabela. They watched as Hawke’s dog sniffed the body cautiously.

“What happened?”

“Hostage situation down at the docks. This guy came at me. I punched him, and now he’s unconscious, so I brought him to you.”

“Of course,” he said grumpily. “Unconscious elves and me just go together like wine and cheese.”

“Not just an elf. Look.”

Isabela knelt, nudging the dog aside, and lifted the elf’s head. Hawke dropped to one knee immediately, suddenly not caring about the water that seeped through his pyjama pants. He brushed the lines that ran over the elf’s chin, recoiling at the familiar sharp tingle.

“Fuck.” He straightened. “What am I going to do with him?”

“I don’t know,” said Isabela. “You fixed Merrill up.”

Hawke opened his mouth to insist that hiding a blood mage for a few days wasn’t the same as hiding a magister’s lyrium filled pet, but closed it again.

“I’ve had enough problems, I don’t need this.” The elf’s dark leggings were becoming sodden from the rain. Hawke pinched the bridge of his nose, and tried to think clearly. He could ask Aveline. Technically slavery was illegal in Kirkwall, but so were a lot of things and no one ever seemed to bother with those laws. In any case, at the ass-end of the night it probably wouldn’t do to go waking up the only person keeping him out of the Circle.

If nothing else he could give the elf something a little drier and a little softer than his front porch. With a loud complaint that wasn’t entirely necessary he picked the elf up.

“Bridal style,” teased Isabela. “Aren’t you cute.” Immediately Hawke accidentally knocked the elf’s head against the door frame.

Eventually, they had the elf on the bed in the spare room. Isabela smiled, and patted him on the shoulder. “Sleep with a gun.”

Hawke frowned at the elf, trying to think how much sleep he’d get and if it were really worth going back to bed. “I always do.”

 

 

 

The noise woke Milan and Milan woke his owner, and Hawke started up, reaching immediately for the gun by his bed. It worked near the same as a mage’s staff except that it blended in a fair bit better and could hurt even when he was aching for lyrium.

The noise came again, a crash at the other end of the house. Hawke stalked past his dark kitchen and through the living room. Eyes glinted at him from the near dark. Hawke nearly used magic but stopped only at the last moment, trying to recall where the light switch was. He kept his gun trained on the elf.

The elf stood in front of him. He was panting, his dark skin slick with sweat that ran down into the grooves the lyrium had scorched into his body. His eyes looked empty, his fang-like teeth bared in a snarl.

“Elf!” Hawke snapped. He kept the gun in hand, not sure what kind of slave the elf had been. “Relax. I’m a friend.” For want of a better word. “Mil,” he warned, and the dog leaned back on her haunches, poised to spring but not about to without command.

“Friend?” The elf blinked, focusing his eyes on Hawke. The iris was too big, and the pupil too small in the light, making the sliver of black the streaked through the middle seem like a scar through the green. “I don’t have friends.”

“You have me,” Hawke said firmly. “Are you alright?” The elf gasped in, blinking, blinking again. His eyes flicked around the room, glancing at exits and furniture.

“Where am I?” His question was like a gunshot.

“Kirkwall. Call me Hawke.” The elf had put his hand up to his face and was touching a slightly swollen cheekbone. “You’re safe, here.” He considered saying that he was free, but the man had just come out of a panic attack and he looked too delicate to overload with information.

“I am supposed to believe you?” The elf looked meaningfully at the knife and gun still in Nat’s hand, and then down at the dog by his side.

“Yes,” snapped Hawke. He considered putting the weapons down, but he didn’t really want to be murdered in his own house. It would be a very embarrassing end to the life he’d had. Eventually the elf sidled back up the hallway, not quite turning his back on Hawke. Hawke waited until he heard the door click closed before he sighed, and relaxed his grip around the weapons.

It was almost too early to bother going back to bed, but he would anyway.

 

 

The morning sky was a dreary greenish-grey, the grass overlaid with fog. The horses in the paddock blinked as he strolled past, nodding hello to them. He whistled, and the dog raced over and trotted after him into the stables.

“Puffin, Nancy.” The two horses watched with a bored expression as he opened their stalls and left them to it. They wandered out, knowing which paddock they had to go to, while Hawke unlocked the feed room and began organising breakfasts. As he went down the drive he walked past the two elderly horses sniffing flowers by a fence, and opened their paddock gate.

He wheeled the barrow around the property, greeting each horse with a shiver and a grunt, getting back to the stable in time to shut the gate on Nancy and Puffin’s paddock. They blinked at him from the other side of the fence, and he threw the last couple of biscuits of hay over for them. He stamped back up the hill as soft rain began to fall.

“You’re not coming inside like that,” Hawke said, frowning down at the dog. He was a huge beast, short bronze hair over thick muscle. He was a fighting dog, bred for the city and bred for a world of gangs and wars. He wagged his tail. “No,” said Hawke. “Kennel. I’ll let you in when the mud’s dried.”

He opened the door and shut it behind him, unwound his scarf, hung up his coat and put his gloves and beanie on the table. He was about to step into the kitchen when he felt a sharp pressure against his throat.

He hadn’t even heard the elf move.

“Who are you?”

“Hawke. We met last night. Did you sleep well?” he asked lightly.

“What am I doing here?” The knife scratched against Hawke’s skin. “Did you purchase me?”

“Not even a little bit.”

The knife slipped, and Hawke danced back away from the blade. The elf stared at him, unable to parse the words.

“How about this,” Hawke suggested. “I make us breakfast, and tell you what’s what, and then you can figure out what you want to do.”

The elf’s grip around the knife faltered. Hawke wouldn’t be so bothered if he knew he could defend himself, but he had no idea how his magic would react to the lyium in the elf. “Where’s Danarius?”

“The Magister?” The elf nodded. “Buggered if I know. What’s your name?”

The elf’s eyes narrowed. “You stole me.”

“Kinda? A friend dumped you here. In my mind you’re free.”

The elf swallowed, slowly, a furrow appearing between his brows and the corners of his mouth turning down even further. “What?”

“I don’t own you. This is Kirkwall. There are a lot of things in Kirkwall but there are no slaves.”

The elf glanced at the door.

“If you want to go then go. I’ll drive you to the airport if you want, but if you stay you can have some food and a shower. Toast. Bacon. Eggs. What’s your name?”

Tentatively, the elf nodded.

“I am called Fenris. Hawke.”

“Yes,” Hawke grinned. “Welcome to the house of fun.”

 

His making breakfast was interrupted by Merrill.

“Ha-awke! You left your dog outside, and he looked so sad.” Hawke tried to let out a shriek of warning, but Milan bounded into the kitchen scattering scarcely dried mud. When Milan noticed what Hawke was doing he obediently sat, tail thumping on the tiles. Hawke, obediently, tossed him a piece of bacon. “And your newspaper got rained on. Is there coffee?” She looked down at Milan, and shook her head. “Of course there isn’t coffee. Your master is very stupid, puppy-dog.”

“He’s not a puppy,” Hawke chided easily. “Do you want breakfast?”

Merrill sneered at the bacon and eggs, tattoos crinkling at the motion. They curled over her cheeks and around her eyes, tracing out words in a language that most only read as gang-affiliated. The Dalish were forgotten to legends and night-time stories. If gods lived only so long as they were talked about, the Dalish gods were nearly dead.

“Vegan, Hawke,” she reminded him.

“There’s cornflakes.”

Merrill made a noise of disgust, then frowned as he cracked another egg into the pan. “Are you really going to eat all that?”

“I’ve a guest,” he gestured down the other end of the house.

“Oh! Oh,” she repeated in a more disappointed tone of voice when she realised that he was pointing away from his bedroom. “Anyone I know?”

“You in the habit of keeping company with magister’s slaves?”

“You’ve got a magister’s slave here?” Merrill squeaked. “Creators’ mercy, Hawke.” Then, she tilted her head in curiosity. “Do they drink coffee?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“I do.” They both whirled. Fenris was standing in the doorway, poised as though as though they were about to pounce.

“Fenris, this is Merrill.”

“Are those Dalish markings?” asked Merrill. “They don’t look like any Vallaslin I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s lyrium.”

“Oh! Because you belonged to a magister!”

Fenris clenched his hands into fists. “Yes,” he growled out.

“Well, you don’t now. It’s good that you ended up here. Hawke’s brilliant at looking after people. Kept me hidden until that mess with the templars got sorted out.”

“Templars?” asked Fenris. He looked her over. “You’re a mage.”

Merrill let a crackle of electricity flow over her fingers. “Yeah, but don’t let on. Don’t ask, don’t tell.”

“You just told,” said Hawke, reaching over her to turn on the kettle.

Not one to let silence linger, Merrill decided that in lieu of anything else she might as well treat him as a friend, and grinned at him. “Coffee?”

“You’re a mage.”

“Promise not to hex you.”

“I think there’s a bigger fear than hexes,” said Hawke. He tried to give Fenris a friendly smile. “No one is going to hurt you.”

“And what if she makes a deal with a demon and hurts other people?”

“Then I’ll kill her,” said Hawke.

Merrill’s eyes went wide at Fenris’ question and she half-turned to Hawke. “Better not let him meet Anders.”

Hawke kept his eyes locked with Fenris’. “Will that suit you?”

“I suppose it will have to. You rescued me. I owe you.”

“Isabela rescued you, but I’ll take it,” Hawke grinned. “Go, sit, I’ll bring food. Merrill, kettle’s done.”

Hawke sat down opposite Fenris, pushing his plate of food across. “Will this Danarius be after you?”

“I am not cheap,” said Fenris. “These markings.”

“Lyrium.”

Fenris gave a short nod.

“Do they hurt?” asked Merrill. “One time I spilt lyrium on a paper cut and I thought I would _die_.”

“They are rather more painful than a paper cut,” sneered Fenris.

“Elves,” Hawke said mildly. “Play nice.”

“Not even a real elf,” muttered Merrill, plonking Fenris’ coffee down so that it sloshed over the edges. Fenris gave Merrill a dark glare.

“Do you have family you want to return to?” Hawke asked, immediately earning himself a dark glare from Fenris.

“What do you think?”

“I had to ask. I need to work out what to do with you.”

“You don’t need to do anything. If I am free as you say.”

“You’re in a foreign city with a million sov’s worth of lyrium tattooed into you,” said Hawke bluntly. “There’s not anyone out there who wouldn’t take the money and turn you in.”

“You said Kirkwall has no slaves.”

“Doesn’t mean we don’t have people who care for money more than morality.”

“Except for you,” Fenris fired back.

“You’re lucky Isabela found you,” snapped Hawke.

“Hawke’s sister died a while back,” Merrill offered into the silence.

“She was a mage, so I don’t expect your sympathy.” Hawke breathed out, carefully. “You’re not the only orphan in this city.”

“Hawke’s very good at protection,” Merrill said. “And we’re friends with the Guard.”

“I would not put you in danger,” said Fenris.

At that, Hawke could only smile widely. “If you honestly think that is a concern of mine it is quite clear we have only just met. Do you know horses?” Fenris blinked at the sudden shift of conversation. “I have a stable, I’ve space for another groom. You can stay here, help me with the horses. It’s a job, at least, and it’ll give you something to do. Course, like I said, you wanna leave…” he continued, musing out loud, “but the offer’s there if you need it.”

Fenris looked down at his plate, at the coffee spilt over onto the table. “I have nowhere else to go,” he said, softly.

Merrill gave a short, delighted laugh. “You’re staying! Wonderful!”


End file.
